“They don’t fit the dress code.”
“Which is?”
I grimace. “Tommy Bahama threw up on a golf course.” He blinks. A slow smile unfurls on my lips. “You’re gonna look atrocious in mint green.”
Determination sharpens his features. “You underestimate me, sweetheart. I’m gonna have you drooling. Aching.Burning. You’ll be so needy, it won’t matter what I’m wearing, you’ll be begging to get me alone.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, shivers coursing through me despite the roaring inferno he’s ignited.
“We’ll see about that.”
His lips move to the corner of my mouth. “Go on then, Sunshine, dress me.”
33
Remy
When he said I'd be aching and burning, I'm pretty sure he didn't mean my stomach from laughing so hard.
“Are you done?” Win sighs, adjusting the cuff of his borrowed mint green button-down. Like a stubborn asshole, he rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, complaining it was too hot and,“It looks way better like this.”
The shirt is one thing.
It’s the shorts that are killing me.
Easter egg pink and hitting a few inches below mid-thigh, they’re a stark contrast to the extensive tattoos covering his legs.
“I can’t,” I wheeze, smacking the steering wheel again. He smirks despite the grouchy mask he’s been wearing since I got carried away dressing him like a preppy tool. He’s not fooling anyone though; the bastard is totally milking it and I can’t blame him.
It’s funny as fuck.
“What is itnow?”
I snort. “I’m picturing you on the putting green.”
He wiggles his brows suggestively. I can’t breathe. Tapping his chin, he muses, “There’s Emo Barbie… Does that make me Goth Ken?”
I’m gonna throw up. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this. He exits the truck, boat shoes crunching on the shell-gravel drive. Although ridiculous and a little loose, his ass looks criminal in those shorts.
Rounding the vehicle, I find him staring at the house.
“They painted it blue.”
I’d gotten so used to the color, I forgot what it looked like before. “Oh, yeah, they got bored a few years ago.”
The corner of his lips lifts. “Let me guess, Lucy Sullivan lost her shit when you moved out and started renovating to fill the void?”
“You forgot the obsessive gardening. She’s very serious about her plants.”
With a barked laugh, he shakes his head. “Not remotely surprised.”
“Come on, Dad’s probably well on his way to pulling a muscle.”
“Don't golfers carry around giant ass bags all day?” he asks, falling into step beside me as we follow the dark grey pavers to Ma's dream backyard.
“That’s the extent of his physical activity. Now pick up the pace, my little pony.”
A feral grin overtakes his face. “You wanna ride me, Sir Remington?”
